Emma, Jay and Davy sat in the small back room known as 'the office.' Emma produced a profit and loss account for the month. After expenses, she placed a wad of fifty-pound notes into his hand.

"What's this?"

The two women laughed.

"Four grand, but it'll be a long time before you get your investment back," said Jay. "I've an idea. We could make a mint in the high-class escort business. The women will have to be more than sexual; they'll have to be cultured and well turned out for every occasion. I suggest they are between twenty-five and thirty-five." She leaned across the table and asked, "What are your thoughts?"

He nodded in agreement.

Emma was hesitant, but she agreed it was worth a try.

Full of optimism for the future, Davy and Emma headed home.

***

Davy sat in his room, mulling over the previous six months. His trust in Emma and Jay had proven to be lucrative and exciting. Jay's Agency grew, along with the profits. The club never ceased to surprise; he discovered lust never slept. An offshore bank accepted his money with no questions asked.

As he descended the stairs, he checked the time. It was 12:30. In the hall mirror, he decided a haircut and a beard trim was the order of the day.

He thought of Tracy and recognized the signs. He didn't love her, but she was younger, more attractive than Emma, and unique. How long he stayed with Emma was a problem he could face later. For the moment, his clandestine liaison with Tracey excited him.

***

Emma was aware the fire in Davy had dimmed. Most nights, when she arrived home, he was either out or fast asleep. The mere thought brought a sense of impending doom. In bed, she tried to redirect her thoughts, but they continued to stray. From now on, no more deceptions or doubts.

While in her office, she overheard one of the girls talking, "That Tracey's sweet on the boss's guy, or so I hear. Mind you. He could tear my knickers off any time."

"You never wear any."

She laughed. "There's always a first time."

The conversation ended at the sight of Emma.

The day she feared most had arrived. Emma took a deep breath, and the truth sickened her. Without any warning, her stomach heaved, and she ran to the toilet and vomited. In front of the mirror, she wiped her ashen face. "How could that bastard do this to me after everything I've done for him?" She frowned but hung onto the painful thought. Wounded, the hate and intense fury made her want to kill. A terrifying madness grew inside her.

Emma awoke from a troubled sleep. Davy had cheated, and she, an object of pity. Not a thing happened in the club without everyone knowing—rumours, more upsetting than the truth. The sun filtered through the curtains.

The whole day passed in a dream-like state. That night Davy arrived home late, and even with half a bottle of scotch inside her, she feigned sleep. Not a thing happened. He didn't even touch her. Emma, her mind in turmoil, erupted and, throwing the bedclothes back, jumped out of bed, shouting, "Get out of my house, you fucking bastard."

Davy woke with a start. "What the hell. What's wrong with you?" He turned on the bedside light.

Her eyes blazed hatred. "Damn you to hell, you bastard. I want you out of here. Go and fuck your whore. They earn good money these days." Her fury found its target.

"Emma, you're crazy. Let me explain."

"I don't want to hear she's a better fuck than me."

He saw the viciousness behind her eyes. With haste, he dressed, shoved his clothes into a suitcase, ran downstairs and called a taxi. In less than an hour, he was with Tracey and told her everything.

She said little but listened to every word.

Davy held her hand. "I didn't mean this to happen."

"Shit happens. Come on, let's go to bed. I'll make you tired."

They made love, and after Tracey slept.

He stared at the ceiling and reflected how small the bedroom was. The council flat was adequate to make love in but not big enough for two people. When daylight flooded the bedroom, Davy got up, went into the kitchen for a drink of water and found the sink full of dirty dishes.

"Tracey, we need to talk."

"What about?"

"This flat. We need somewhere larger."

"You want me to live with you?"

"Have you a better idea?"

"Well, we better start looking."

The following morning, they stopped at the first estate agents they saw. Davy went in and gave the young man sitting behind a desk an outline of what he needed.

"You're in luck," said the agent. "A few days ago, one of our better properties came on the market." In his firm's BMW 5 series, he drove them to Oliver's Wharf, Wapping. "Do you know?" he stated as he went through the narrow streets. "In the mid-eighteenth century, a law-abiding citizen dare not venture into this area. It was the favourite haunt of the much-feared press gangs."

Davy squirmed at the concept of waking up on board a vermin-ridden warship.

The furnished flat in a converted Victorian warehouse suited their needs. Davy strolled out onto the balcony and glanced along the river.

To the left, empty decaying wharfs. To the right Tower Bridge and in the pool HMS Belfast, a reminder of Britain's once-powerful navy.

"This is a great place," said the agent. "For years, this building and others lay empty. This building was the first complete conversion. Its success encouraged the big developers to snap up every spare piece of land and available warehouse. Docklands has become London's most fashionable habitat."

In the agent's office, Davy signed a six-month lease with an open-ended option. The documentation complete. He handed over a cheque and received two sets of keys.

***

With his relationship with Emma at an end, it was time to move on. Despite this, the business needed her. After much thought, he telephoned Emma and Jay to arrange a meet at the club.

Throughout their meeting, Emma remained hostile.

Jay laughed. "What did you expect? He's a man, not a bloody saint. Let's be fair. Without him, we'd be working the street, and you'd be bonking the occasional brush salesman."

Davy interrupted. "Emma, Jay, it doesn't matter what you think of me, what I should do, or what I've done. Number one, Tracey will not be working at the club. Number two, I'm leaving the business. I own fifty-one per cent; the rest is yours. You have two choices: number one, buy me out, or number two, each month you deposit forty per cent of the profit in my bank account. My remaining eleven per cent I leave as a thank-you present."

Before Emma said a word, Jay blurted out, "Number two agreed, but what are you going to do?"

Emma said nothing.

"Me, I'm going to buy a yacht, sail it to the Mediterranean, and live the life. I might get myself a little villa in the hills of Estepona. Emma, everybody uses everybody. I'm not going to say sorry. It would have ended sometime: better now than later. You have money and a good life; you'll forget me and lure another lucky bugger into your bed."

Her face grim, she waited for him to say more, but he didn't. "We've had good times, much more than I hoped for, but everything changes. I must confess you made life-exciting. I'll miss you, you bastard." Tears created dark lines of mascara.

"I'll be around until I get sorted. We can have a party to celebrate my departure."

***

Davy wanted to buy a yacht and thought Poole in Dorset might be a great place to start. It was showery the following morning when they set off. They were through South London and into a different world; green valleys now replaced the almost endless housing estates. On arriving in Poole, they found and booked into a hotel on the waterfront. After dinner, they went for a walk, noting the location of the main marina office.

It was passing nine the next day when they entered the Marina office. In his middle fifties, a man wearing a designer suit and owning an Omega Sea-master peered up from his desk. "Good morning, Commander Mike Wilson, general manager. Can I help?"

"Hi. Davy Jones, I'm looking to buy a yacht. Thirty-five to forty-five feet, at a minimum cost of one fifty to two hundred thousand."

Davy noticed Mike glance out of the window at his new Mercedes parked in the car park.

"What do you want it for, holidaying or racing? One moment and I'll check the files to see what's available."

Davy inspected a few vessels. Finally, his choice was a 44-foot, 7-berth sloop named Hobson's Choice. It had everything: GPS navigation, VHF radio, depth sounder, a whole stereo system, a good engine and plenty of room. He noticed green slime clung in swathes from its waterline.

To Davy, it fitted into his plan. "Any chance of taking her out? The anticipation and excitement of fighting against the wind and the sea. I want to make sure it works?"

Mike made the necessary arrangements.

Davy, Tracey, Mike and a recruited deckhand named Eric motored from Poole harbour at 15:05. They made for the English Channel's coastal waters and, when it was safe to do so, hoisted the sails and stopped the engine. Davy took the helm, found the wind and began to put the boat through its paces. Mike and Eric made an excellent crew and compensated when Davy's lack of experience came to the fore. He found her sluggish when sailing close to the wind.

On their return to harbour, Davy commented, "It's okay, Mike, and providing you get the hull cleaned, have it inspected and serviced, I'll buy it. Also, get me better sails, and I'll keep the others as spare. One last point: overhaul the engine and fuel systems."

"You name it, and I'll have it done."

He glanced over his shoulder, examined the boat. "Thanks, but we've covered the important bits."

They shook hands. "I'll give you a ring in two weeks," said Mike.

Hand in hand, they strolled back to the hotel. As they left for home, she stopped. "You're changing."

"Why not? I'm enjoying every minute of it. I'm alive."

"Be careful. Don't create too much attention, or the wrong people might notice."

"I'm not stupid. Come on, let's go." He picked up their suitcases, and Tracey followed.

Three hours later, Davy let himself into the flat, dumped the suitcases and sat on the settee. Tracey noticed a message on the answering machine. She pressed the play button and listened, "Davy, it's Emma. I need your help."

Without any hesitation, they ran out and jumped in the car. He drove with great skill, pushing his way through the traffic from Wapping to Camden Town.

"What now?" Tracey asked.

"We'll see what Emma's problem is. After, we eat. I'm famished."

Tracey nodded. "We're there."

He slowed and pulled into the kerb outside the club. When they entered, Emma came out of the office. "What's wrong?"

The look on Emma's face showed concern. "Where have you been?"

"Calm down and talk to me."

Tracey made everyone a cup of coffee in the back room. Davy said nothing as Emma sat at her desk, with her hands wrapped around the mug.

She described how two men entered the club and asked to talk to the boss. "I told them I owned it."

The taller of the two grabbed me by the hair and whispered, "You have shareholders who demand a dividend every month of eight thousand pounds. Don't pay, and we close you forever."

"The first payment of two thousand pounds is due on Friday."

Davy snapped. "Who the fuck are they?"

"The Red Mafia," Emma said. "Up until now, they've had their agreement with the local pimps and left small places alone. Somebody must have realised we're making money. I know if I don't cough up, I'll get my legs broken or my face remodelled."

Davy sat and thought for a minute. "Pay them the money. Out of interest, how loyal is your bouncer, Charlie?"

"Why?"

"I understand he's a likeable thug."

Emma frowned. "Charlie's reliable, not the brightest, but okay. I agree we pay them."

Tracey glanced at Davy.

Davy leaned on the wall and said nothing.

Friday night arrived, and Davy and Charlie hid across the road. The two men came on foot, and Emma handed over the money. Before she closed the door, Davy heard one of them shout, "See you same time next week."

The following Friday, the two men returned. Before they left, one turned and said, "Oh, the insurance charges are three grand a week. The boss has included fire protection."